


cake and misunderstandings

by Murf1307



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M, Miscommunication
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-17
Updated: 2013-11-17
Packaged: 2018-01-01 22:02:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1049084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Murf1307/pseuds/Murf1307
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire overhears Enjolras talking to anyone who'll listen about about the man he's absolutely wild for.  Unfortunately, Grantaire doesn't realize that he is that man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	cake and misunderstandings

**Author's Note:**

> written for [this](http://sclez.tumblr.com/post/57692752303/imagine-r-overhearing-enjolras-describe-this) tumblr prompt

_"He’s brilliant. Seriously, Combeferre, he’s so knowledgeable in so many different areas and his analytical skill — just, immense. And the way he talks, he just, he spins poetry almost as easily as Jehan does and he doesn’t even seem to notice…"_

This, and other moments like it, have been spinning through Grantaire’s head for weeks. Because Enjolras is apparently infatuated with someone, and Grantaire keeps overhearing him talking about it to anyone who’ll listen to him. He sounds sweet and earnest and it makes Grantaire’s insides twist, because of course, of course that’s how it would go, how it would sound.

And it hurts to look at Enjolras now, because there’s something new in his demeanor and Grantaire knows the cause of that almost giddy little glow, the way he smiles and laughs easier now, and maybe it makes him a selfish bastard, but he pulls away.

But it hurts not to look, too, so he always finds his way back to that little cafe, ten, fifteen minutes late some nights. Barely spares Enjolras a glance, because he knows if he looks, he’ll keep looking, and that’ll only burn him. So he keeps his eyes at the bottom of his glass and pretends that nothing’s wrong. He can tell that Joly and Bossuet aren’t buying it, but he doesn’t give them the chance to ask him anything.

One night, one or two weeks out, he’s Too Sober For This Shit as his feet trace the familiar path. He’s only going to be ten minutes late, maybe, so he doesn’t hurry, doesn’t even look where he’s going, lost in turning over the latest bits and pieces he’s overheard in his head.

"Grantaire?" comes a familiar voice, a few paces on, from the alcove by the door to the cafe. It’s Enjolras, streetlamps illuminating his hair and gilding the edges of his face. He looks…uncertain.

Grantaire checks the time. “Don’t you have more important things to do than wait for me? Your meeting started ten minutes ago.”

Enjolras looks down at his shoes. “Combeferre and Courfeyrac can handle it. I —” He cuts himself off, shaking his head and laughing a little, but there’s no joy in it. “Is it presumptuous of me to say I miss you?”

"Miss me?" Grantaire echoes, the words unfamiliar in his mouth. "It’s not like I’ve been away."

"But something’s been — different. In the last few weeks. I don’t think we’ve had a conversation or even a fight. And I haven’t seen you at all outside of meetings." Enjolras scuffs the toe of his shoe against the pavement. "Did something happen? Did I — do something?" His voice is small, almost nervous.

 _You fell in love_  is what Grantaire doesn’t say. “No,” he says instead. “I’m fine.”

Enjolras nods, awkwardly. “Okay. So. Um.”

"Do you want to…go inside?" Grantaire has never heard Enjolras at a loss for words. "You probably want to get back to whatever you’re doing."

"No," Enjolras says. "I — if you don’t mind, um. Do you want to take a walk? With me?"

Grantaire blinks, his chest tightening. He doesn’t know what to do with any of this — Enjolras noticing, Enjolras  _missing him_ , Enjolras wanting to completely blow off a meeting to take a walk with him — so he stands there in silence for a moment before nodding. “Okay.”

Enjolras pushes off the wall he’d been leaning against, and he smiles, which doesn’t help the mass of emotion in Grantaire’s gut. “Good. I remember, you, you showed us all that place a few blocks away, the one with the really good cake? Do you want to go there?”

Grantaire laughs, because he doesn’t know what else to do about this. “Sure.”

And then he has to remind himself to breathe, because Enjolras  _lights up_ , smile wide and eyes sparkling, dimpled in his cheeks and crinkly at the corners of his eyes. “Come on, then,” Enjolras says, like the nervousness has died away completely, and Grantaire can’t help but follow.

"So," Enjolras says after about a block, "What have you been up to, lately?"

"Nothing much, same as ever, I guess." Grantaire’s not sure what to say, because in the long run this is only going to make it hurt worse but right now, Enjolras is smiling at him and asking him things and Grantaire’s self-preservation instincts are essentially nil. "There’s a martial arts tournament coming up soon, so me and Bahorel have been sparring a little more. Different weight classes, but it’s useful."

Enjolras nods. “Do you mind, terribly, if I come watch this tournament?”

The question catches Grantaire off guard. “You don’t have to, if you don’t want —”

"Do you want me there." Enjolras interrupts, stopping outright. "I want to go. I’m asking you if it’s okay." There’s something frustrated in his voice, in his eyes when Grantaire dares to meet them."

And Grantaire  _does_  want Enjolras there. But it’s hard to believe that Enjolras wants to sit on hard college gymnasium bleachers to watch Grantaire either kick the shit out of some people or get the shit kicked out of him. So he shrugs. “It’s okay,” he says. “I mean, you probably won’t enjoy it much and spectator tickets are like ten bucks and the food will probably suck and costs extra and spectators aren’t allowed on the floor so you’ll have to watch from pretty far away and —”

Enjolras laughs, bringing his hand over his mouth to try and muffle it. “I don’t mind,” he says, and it’s almost confessional. “I want to see you.”

Grantaire goes quiet, gapes a little. “Okay.”

He’s definitely imagining what looks like a blush on Enjolras’s face, he has to be. So he changes the subject. “So, uh,” he says, starting again from where they’ve stopped. “How’s that classics course going?”

Enjolras groans exaggeratedly. “None of it makes any sense the way the professor explains it. Honestly, his readings of the texts are flawed at best and I’m absolutely certain that if you were there you would dismantle them out of sheer vitriol.”

"Classics are serious business. People have built their whole careers on whether or not Achilles topped in bed," Grantaire says breezily. "And nobody likes Xenophon, either."

"You should sit in sometime, if you have time," Enjolras says. "It would be funny to watch you take over the class — I’m pretty sure the professor is a Xenophon adherent, considering we’re six weeks in and he hasn’t mentioned  _Myrmidons_  once.”

Grantaire laughs. “It seems you’ve done your own research.”

"One has to, to keep up with the constant references you make," Enjolras says, smiling. "Considering you’ll start quoting Catullus while  _drunk_ , in the  _original Latin_. And then there was that time you went on a ten minute rant about Alexander the Great just to irritate me — which, by the way, was actually very helpful, thank you.”

"Bah, basics. Classics major, you know how it is," Grantaire says. "Pretentious familiarity with absolutely useless parts of history — suits me well, I guess."

"If nothing else, it makes you a fantastic rhetorician," Enjolras rebuts, and there’s nothing but sincerity in his voice and his smile. "And you combined it with a Design major and, if my sources are right, you’re aiming for a teaching certification later on."

Grantaire can’t help the blush on his face, because Enjolras sounds…admiring. Like there’s something  _good_ about the useless mashup of a degree he’s aiming for. “Thanks.”

"Just stating the facts," Enjolras says lightly, and by now they’ve reached the little bakery. It’s still open this late, which was a major factor when Grantaire had suggested it weeks ago as a good post-meeting haunt. Enjolras pulls open the door and gestures for Grantaire to go first.

That shouldn’t make his stomach turn over almost pleasantly, but it does, and he hides his deepening blush.

Enjolras makes small talk with the woman behind the counter, and Grantaire hangs back, choosing the table by the storefront window. He has no idea what’s going on, and he doesn’t want to think about it, because then he’ll overthink it and inevitably fuck up…whatever is happening here. And right now, there’s nothing he wants less than to fuck this up.

He doesn’t even notice he didn’t tell Enjolras what to order for him until Enjolras is sitting down across from him at the tiny table and sets a plate of Grantaire’s favorite down in front of him. Their knees knock together under the table, and Grantaire doesn’t know what to say.

"This one’s your favorite, right?" Enjolras says, and he looks almost nervous.  _Why is he nervous?_

"Yeah." Grantaire cocks his head to the side. "I didn’t know you knew."

"Sources, I have them," Enjolras says, laughing, and he is definitely nervous; Grantaire can practically feel the tension in him. "Plus you mentioned it."

Grantaire nods, not sure what else to say, and takes a forkful of the excellent, excellent cake. It is, as usual, perfect. He forgets himself and makes a noise that might in other contexts get him arrested.

Enjolras freezes, and it brings Grantaire back to reality to see Enjolras has turned bright red, blush disappearing into his hairline and the collar of his shirt.

No. No way.

"So, um."

"Y-yeah?"

"Want some?" Grantaire offers, spearing a chunk of cake on his fork and holding it out toward Enjolras. There is no way, no way this is happening, but Grantaire might as well pretend it is.

Enjolras looks a little stricken, but he reaches over and takes the fork. His fingers briefly cover Grantaire’s and they’re warm and soft and slender, and Grantaire is going to die every night for the rest of his life like some reverse Prometheus because this memory will kill him.

"It’s good," Enjolras says quietly. "Um, I understand the — the appeal."

Grantaire swallows. “Are you okay?”

"I’m fine," Enjolras says, too quick, color still high in his cheeks. "Really, I’m f-fine."

"You’re stuttering. You don’t stutter. And you don’t offer to take walks with me to get cake or go to martial arts tournaments and you don’t  _miss me_.” If his voice rises a little near the end, well, Grantaire needs to know what’s going on. He can’t play whatever game this is, not when he knows that somebody out there has Enjolras’s heart.

Enjolras’s mouth drops open. He struggles for words. Then he gets up, his own cake hardly touched at all, and mumbles something that might be “I’m sorry” before quickly making his way out of the bakery.

Grantaire has even less idea what’s going on now, and he gets to his own feet and follows him out. “Enjolras!”

Enjolras stops, only a few paces away. He’s still as stone and tense as a coiled spring. Grantaire approaches carefully, heart pounding because he doesn’t know what’s going on and he’s afraid of what the evidence suggests because it doesn’t make sense.

"I — I didn’t mean to get angry," Grantaire says, a step behind Enjolras now. "It’s just — you’ve never…you…I’m confused."

"I’m awful," Enjolras whispers, and his voice sounds shaky and rough. "I’m awful and I should have known better and I…I’m sorry I screwed this up this badly."

Grantaire doesn’t know what to say. So he goes with the truth. “I — I overheard you talking about this guy you like. And I — shit. Shit. I couldn’t…I couldn’t handle that whoever he is, he’s not me.” He laughs mirthlessly. “And I know it makes me a terrible person and I should be happy for you because hey, friendship, right? I’m lucky to even have that from you and —”

He gets cut off because all of a sudden, Enjolras’s hands are on his shoulders and he’s kissing Grantaire like he’s drowning.

Grantaire pulls him closer on instinct because he has no idea what’s happening, because it feels like there should be maybe a conversation and words but Enjolras is kissing him instead so those will have to wait until they’re not breathing in each other’s air.

"It was you, it was always you. I was — I was talking about you," Enjolras whispers as he pulls back only enough to lean their foreheads together. "I’m sorry, I should have said and I — I’m awful and I just want to be with you and I’ve fucked this up absolutely royally and will you give me another chance?"

"Are you — are you asking me out?" Grantaire asks, after a couple of breathless moments.

"Trying to, at any rate," Enjolras says, softly.

Grantaire nods a little. He’s still dazed and he’s going to have to think about this and they’re going to have a long conversation about this because holy  _shit_ , this is pretty monumental.

But he decides that can wait, and kisses Enjolras again, because that’s the short-form  _Yes._


End file.
